Little Prints
by Anchoku
Summary: This little campfire ghost story is actually an experimental piece of original fiction. I wrote it over a year ago as part of a Halloween time-challenge. For the rare people who actually find it, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.


Little Prints

"Terry, you know any good ghost stories?" Darryl, my drinking buddy asked. My name is Terry Misutik. I've been called lots of things like tiramisu and teary-eyed mystic, most of them by my friends and usually when they're drunk, but I've never been accused of being a good storyteller, much less a believer in the supernatural. That was why I almost gave my answer in the form of a belch. Tonight, however, Darryl's dumb-ass question reminded me of a little problem I've been having; well, Darryl and the weather. It was raining outside on this cold, dark October evening. My little problem, more of an inconvenience really, began almost two weeks ago, thirteen days, to be exact, and it's strange enough that maybe I can make a half-way decent ghost story out of it. If not, oh well, I tried.

"I might know of one," I said, trying not to sound too sly about it. Terry's eyes widened in surprise. Clearly his expectations were almost as low as mine. "It all started two weeks ago," I intoned, trying to make it sound more impressive. He quirked an eyebrow and gave me that, this had better not be as lame as it sounds, look. "I know, I know," I protested deciding to forego the dramatics, "I'll get to it. Just hang on. It really _did_ start two weeks ago." Terry raised his mug and I used the opportunity to start explaining before he ran out of beer or decided to change the topic.

"You know I'm a booster for the fire department, right?" I asked.

Terry snorted into his mug making a hollow tone before letting it droop far enough from his mouth to add his characteristic sarcasm. "This has to do with drinking, don't it."

He caught me off guard there, having pegged me on the spot. I nod but press on. "Yes, but we were talking two weeks ago and Reg was telling us about this old house down in the five hundred-year flood zone that won't ever get torn down even though it's been condemned."

"Why?" Terry asked, obviously as intrigued as I was at the time. He took another sip and I knew I had his attention for at least the remaining half of his twenty-ounce mug.

"Reg Parker said the city can't find it on the registry anymore. They can't get rid of it because of some kind of computer glitch. Maybe the title got lost or something when city hall got flooded out. Anyway, for some weird reason, they can _go_ there and _see_ the house but they can't put it on the map or in the computer. That's why it can't be torn down even though it has the condemned notice stuck right on the front door. Cool, huh?"

"I wouldn't say cool but it's kind o' weird."

"That's what _I_ thought too, so the next day, two Saturdays ago I went to go find it, you know, just to see if it was there or if Reg was just pulling my leg." I needed a drink and took one. This next part was where things started getting odd.

"So? Was it?"

I gulped my fermented broth of barley. "Yeah, it was there, just like Reg said it was. All the little seven hundred square foot, fifty-year-old houses around it were marked for demolition. There was a flatbed up the street and a backhoe taking a break for the weekend. I figured at first it would get torn down for sure but I remembered what Reg said. If the city couldn't officially find it, they couldn't officially tear it down and they couldn't unofficially pay someone to do it, either.

"So, I was kind of curious and decided to just park and take a closer look. The weather was pretty good, not like today, and the sun was shining, again, not like today. So, anyway, the front door was taped up with yellow, do-not-cross tape. I didn't want to just break in through the front door in broad daylight because I was curious. All real houses have back doors anyway, so I walked around the side. Now, here's the scary part," I say, leaning toward Darryl, conspiratorially. "In the tiny basement windows around the side were a bunch of small, streaky hand prints, kind of like a kid's. They were on the _inside."_

Darryl gave me a lidded stare. I struggled to defend the story. It was, after all, the truth, even if it wasn't a ghost story. "I figured some kids broke in and played in the muck after the water drained out but that meant there was a way in. It turned out that the back door was locked and had tape over it, too. I ended up walking around the other side of the house in a big circle ready to give up, even if I was curious. I don't like breaking into condemned houses."

Darryl rolled his eyes at me. His beer was almost empty. I decided to empty mine and order another round or I'd never finish before the Iowa game comes on. While he quickly made up for lost ground, I signaled the bartender, then had to let out a little carbonation but managed to do it semi-quietly under the pervasive bar noise.

"So, what happened? You walked around the house and left?" Darryl asked.

"Uhh." Darryl was right but there was more to it. "Well, the ground was dry and wasn't muddy after all this time, otherwise I just wouldn't, but I did. The little hand prints were on the windows on the other side of the house, too. One of the windows was slid open a couple of inches and I figured that was how the kid got in so I got down and opened it wide enough to stick my head inside. All I wanted was a peek inside. No way was I going to try and crawl in through that hole; not to mention how high the window was off the floor."

"And the window closed and chopped your head off?" my _buddy_ asked, laughing.

A little sourly, I replied, "No, obviously _not!_ I ended up not seeing anything, though. There wasn't hardly _any_ light down there. The three other windows were small too, and were caked with mud. The whole house was stained a little brown from the river right up over the eaves. In the basement, there wasn't anything except brown lumps of old furniture. I recognized a couple of small rocking chairs and a book case with collapsed shelves. It was probably made out of that cheap pressed wood stuff. There wasn't much I could even tell what it was."

"I'm surprised the basement windows held against the flood," Darryl commented. I nodded in agreement. Maybe they sandbagged but gave up when the water went over the doorstep. It was something to think about. Darryl asked, "Is there a scary part to this story?"

I winced. I'm just not good with stories; scary or otherwise. "It's just that… Okay, I didn't see anything in the basement and got in the car and left but that's when the weird stuff started. You know how it got cold and rained for three days last week?" I asked. Darryl nodded just as the bartender brought our fresh, twenty-ounce salves for the soul in super-frosty mugs. "Well, the inside of my car was getting foggy one morning so I turned the heat up and switched the vent over to defog the front window. When I checked the passenger side, there were little handprints on it. It almost scared the crap out of me until I realized it was probably some kid who touched it sometime. Handprints can stay like that forever until you clean them off. It's kind of like what happens with soap on a mirror.

"But that's what I don't get," I mumbled, thinking about the logic. "My kids are all bigger than that, a lot bigger. Joey's in high school and the other two are in college sucking fat wads of loot from my pocket. I guess my wife, Brenda, must have borrowed the car to give some kid a ride. That would probably explain the handprints in the bathroom mirror after a hot shower, too. I'll have to ask when I get home… _if_ I remember."

I give Darryl a tired smile hoping my wife didn't adopt a neighbor kid. It was nice not having to clean smears from the walls, anymore. My beer called and I grabbed the frosty handle, raising it in a toast for telling a story that was truly bad on all accounts. Darryl picked up his and went to do the same when his eyes suddenly got big. "Terry!" he said, pointing at my mug. I turned it around to find another five-year-old-kid-sized handprint and frowned in exasperation.

"All right, whoever you are, you're too young to be touching my beer!" I declared, just to be funny. Darryl laughed. I decided to run the joke into the ground and ordered a root beer in a frosted mug. When it came, I slid it on the bar over to the empty seat on my other side.

That was my mistake. Darryl messed with me for the rest of the night saying stuff like, "Look! It's a handprint!" making me turn around to see a drippy mark that some other patron probably left walking by at Darryls encouragement. I tell you, ghost stories are more trouble than they're worth.


End file.
